


Promethean heat, or, For want of a match

by Hypatia_66



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 13:13:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16018652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: LJ Short Affair challenge. Prompts: gush, red.Mr Waverly wants to light his pipe - Illya comes to the rescue





	Promethean heat, or, For want of a match

The banks of equipment were flashing quietly; the communication channels were silent; his desk was clear. He could smoke his pipe in peace. The humidor was near at hand, not yet empty; he filled his pipe slowly and methodically, put it to his lips and felt for his lighter. Not there. Damnation! Matches?

Miss Rogers, also at peace, was startled by an imperative buzz from her boss’s office.

“Sir?”

“Do you have a cigarette lighter, Miss Rogers?”

“No, sir, I’m sorry, I don’t smoke.”

“Matches?”

“Sorry, sir.”

There was a thunderous growl.

“Can you find me someone who can light my pipe?”

“Certainly, sir. Give me a few minutes and I’ll be with you.”

<><> 

Health warnings about tobacco and cancer were beginning to take effect, and people were being encouraged to give up smoking. That meant a lot of short tempers, and Miss Rogers received some very curt answers in the negative.

When she phoned Napoleon, he too replied in the negative, though perfectly politely, but suggested she try Section Eight. He didn’t know what Illya was currently working on, but – his proclivities being what they were - he could be relied upon to come up with something Promethean. Miss Rogers thought of Mr Kuryakin bearing a flaming torch through the corridors – an all too probable scenario – and blanched. Nevertheless, as time was passing and she knew Mr Waverly was fuming – but not smoking – she rang down to the labs.

Illya, in white coat and protective goggles, was working on a gadget that would produce a gush of hot fluid to disable an opponent – he’d got the idea from an unpleasantly painful experience with an ants’ nest, whose occupants had swarmed over his bare skin biting and spraying foul-smelling formic acid on him. He was wondering about whether to include red dye in the mixture, to add further aggravation.

The ringing phone interrupted his experiment. “Yes? … What – now? … Immediately. Er, I’ll think of something… be with you in a minute. What’s the weather like? Ah, good.”

Waverly was definitely fuming by the time Illya arrived in his office. “Sorry it’s taken so long,” he said. “You need something to light your pipe, I believe?”

Waverly grunted. Illya went to the window, turning his back on the room. He bent over something, made a small triumphant sound and filled the air with the smell of burning, and something less pleasant. Cupping his hands around whatever it was, he came to Mr Waverly and presented a smouldering taper. “This ought to work,” he said.

Waverly took it from him and started to light his pipe, Illya watching critically. “How did you manage it?” Waverly asked after a few moments, having persuaded the tobacco to light.

“Oh, quite simple,” Illya replied showing him the magnifying glass he had brought with him to catch and concentrate the sun’s rays.

“And the taper – why doesn’t it burn up?”

“It’s dipped in a small amount of a pyrotechnic compound to depress its flammability and encourage smouldering.”

“Of your own invention?” asked Waverly, now wrinkling his nose at the smell of the dying taper.

“Yes, sir.”

“I thought so. Well, thank you Mr Kuryakin. Perhaps you can tell me why there are no matches in the building?”

“Oh, there are,” said Illya, surprised. “I didn’t realise you had asked for a _match_.”

Before Mr Waverly could respond to this, the lights on his console started to flash for an incoming call and ticker tape data. He put his pipe down, glared at his subordinate and waved him away.

<><><><>


End file.
